


Opportunities (Let's Make Lots Of.....)

by telemachus



Series: Chasing Cars [2]
Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: Growing Up, Longing, M/M, Penzance, Pre-Series, School, School trips, Teenagers, Vince never says anything, in fact some of it isn't even underage now due to change in the law, underage only as in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-27 12:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10020314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: Stuart goes from strength to strength, and Vince watches. Or, being a teenager isn't easy, and having Stuart Alan Jones for your best friend doesn't actually make it easier.Except when it does, of course.(also - 1980s tunes as titles)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) As ever, Stuart isn't even vaguely polite, and he's quite capable of using words that are frowned upon by most. Also, this is set in 1980s Britain, words as appropriate (i think, stretching my memory....).
> 
> 2) I don't see Vince as girly. BUT - he definitely has his moments of believing in Romance (cf "the One I've been waiting for", referring to parasite-man). And canonically, kissing is important to him (cf Cameron's kiss at the end of the date knocks him for six completely, not to mention the only time we see him be assertive sexually is when he corrects the technique of man-who-likes-dr-who-more-than-shagging).

_14_

_Summer Term_

_Not quite the first day_

_(Relax)_

“Look at him, he’s such a poof, he is, he’s got to be.”

Vince stills, silent, frozen for a long moment at Johnny’s words. Half-turns, looking to see who he means – as though it matters, is there any boy Johnny hasn’t called poof at one time or another, any boy brighter, smarter, more popular, more fashionable, anyone who gets an A in music, English, French, history – but please, not me, not like this, not when things have been going so right recently.

Follows Johnny’s gaze.

Oh.

There’s Stuart, Stuart Jones, new-boy Stuart. Only here three weeks, and already, all this term, days feel brighter, more exciting. Just the chance, the hope, that Stuart will sit with him, copy his maths, steal his calculator, annotate – scurrilously – his textbooks has given school a whole new shine.

Stuart, Stuart Alan Jones – and who else knows his middle name, who else is the nearest thing boys of fourteen have to a best friend, no-one, that’s who – Stuart standing there, holding forth about – something. Doesn’t matter what, whether he really knows anything or whether he is just making it up – real Irish gift of the gab, Vince’s mum would say he must have kissed the blarney stone, only she hasn’t met Stuart yet. Vince isn't quite brave enough to ask Stuart home, not just for no reason like, not when Stuart’s conversation is littered with mentions of two parents, of a house that is clearly three times the size of theirs, of a dishwasher, a video, a freezer with icecream available every day. 

Stuart, wonderful, amazing, clever, funny, devastatingly attractive Stuart. 

Stuart who has brought colour and excitement and laughter into Vince’s life, which never seemed lacking before.

Stuart, terrifyingly beautiful Stuart.

Stuart who has, without meaning to, without trying, without even caring, confirmed everything Vince had begun to fear about himself.

“Bloody poofter, look at him,” Johnny is working himself up to a fight now.

Vince swallows.

He can’t let that happen. He just – can’t. Johnny’s alright, mostly, but if he loses it, he’s, well, a bit scary, frankly. And Stuart – amazing, wonderful Stuart – Vince doesn’t know, but somehow he suspects Stuart might not be quite the tough scrapper he’d like to portray himself as. 

He certainly hasn’t got any marks from it.

“What,” he says, voice dry and face deadpan, “standing there surrounded by some of the fittest birds in the year, all of them hanging on his every word, lunchtime before the disco tonight? Yeah, I can see how you’d think he might be queer.”

There’s general laughter, and Johnny scowls, walks away, deliberately knocking against Vince as he goes. Better that than what might have happened.

Conversation drifts back to weekend plans, and Vince, who has none, stays quiet, still half-watching the other group, wondering how it feels to be so – cool.

As though his stare can be felt – and in later years, he’ll come to understand that Stuart can indeed feel eyes on him from any distance, however crowded the room, the street – Stuart turns, grins, and beckons,

“Vince – come and tell Mandy I’m right,” without bothering to explain what exactly he’s right about.

Vince tries to pretend he isn't chuffed, isn't glowing as he walks over, becomes embroiled in the argument.

“By the way,” as the girls move into waters too deep for mere boys, Stuart leans on his shoulder, mouth close to his ear, in that too-intimate-by-far way that Vince is coming to simultaneously long for and dread, “nice use of logic. Shame Johnny’s better at guessing than anyone would think to look at him.”

And Vince looks at him, blinks, can’t take in what he’s being told.

Stuart grins, slow and confident, head on one side, “Yeah, reckoned you knew right from the first. ‘Cos I know you are, aren’t you? Seen you looking,” and he cocks his head towards Mark Alston, Mark who Vince has quietly adored for three years now – Mark who hasn’t featured in Vince’s thoughts for three whole weeks.

Vince blushes all the same, but there’s a joy in it, an oh my god, someone else, thank god, someone to talk to. Not that he can imagine ever, ever being so upfront.

“You busy this weekend?” Stuart goes on, as though he hasn’t just turned the world upside down, “only with it being a bank holiday I reckon I could do with an excuse to get out of extra family time. Could come over like. Raid your mum’s drinks cabinet,” he leans closer again, “talk about boys. Men. Swap stories.”

Vince nods, wordless for once.

All too aware he doesn’t have any stories.


	2. Chapter 2

_White Scar Caves_

_(What’s Love Got to Do with It?)_

Carefully counting out coins to pay for the mug, Vince doesn’t notice Stuart leave his side. It’s only when, purchase complete, he turns to start on again about the caves and wow, and weren’t they amazing, and can you imagine those blokes going down by candlelight, and just – how cool was that? – that he realises Stuart’s gone.

For a moment the old familiar fear of being alone, vulnerable, hits him, but then he blinks, and don’t be daft, Stuart won’t have gone far, and anyway, plenty of other people around, plenty of people you’re mates with. You don’t have to be with Stuart all the time.

Smiles at Mandy, at Susie, at Darren, goes over, becomes immersed in the conversation – which pencil for which younger sibling. 

“Shame really,” he says, “I won’t see Judith for ages, otherwise she’d love one of those unicorns. But I’d probably lose it before the next time I go,” must be nice to have a little sister you actually live with.

“No you wouldn’t,” Mandy says, “not you,” and shares a look with Susie, “Stuart would – but I don’t see him buying anything for anyone.”

Vince shrugs,  
“His sister’s a bit old for cute stationery,” he says, and then, mindful of the weirdness of girls, “isn't she?”

He almost doesn’t notice Stuart come out of the loos, probably wouldn’t, if it wasn’t for the way Martin Patterson follows him. The look on the older boy’s face would give it away to anyone looking – but it’s only Vince who sees.

Oh.

So – with Martin. You don’t like Martin. You were slagging him off something chronic the other day.

And now you’ve been – doing what – I don’t know – I don’t want to know – something – like – like we – only we didn’t.

Because I ran away, because I didn’t dare try again. Because if you wanted to, you would, and you don’t, so you don’t want to.

So.

You don’t like him, but you fancy him. 

And you like me, but you don’t fancy me.

All the blokes you talk about, they’re nothing like me. All the ones you look at. You – you just don’t fancy me. 

What did you do with him?

Was it good?

Did you kiss him?

Did you touch him – how did you touch him?

Did he touch you – I suppose he must have – from the look on your face, he must have – and he – he was braver than me.

Better than me.

But then, almost anyone would be better than me. Your stories – all the things you say you’ve done – back in Ireland, here, and I don’t know how true they are, only you don’t lie about anything else so maybe – you’re so brave. So – I don’t know how you can. I wish – but – but don’t you ever want it to be – with someone you really – no. Maybe you don’t.

And if you did, you still wouldn’t pick me. Not the way I am.

There isn't time to say anything, anything at all, before they’re being herded back to the coach, and Vince is only too aware of the empty seat next to Martin, of his eyes fixed on a point over Vince’s shoulder. Vince walks on down the aisle – I don’t care, I don’t need a best friend, I’m not six – sits by the window – at least I can look out the window this time – and almost jumps a foot in the air when,

“Oi, twatface, I told you, that’s my seat,” Vince stands automatically, watches Stuart drop into his rightful seat with grace, and flushes as he leans in and confides, “now d’you believe me? Told you Patterson was up for it. One quick wank and he bloody thinks it’s lurve. Tosser.”

Knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it, turning to face Stuart, joining in the joke, amazed and ready to listen to the bragging.

Knowing he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it, asking.  
“Just a wank? You – him – did you – did he – “

Stuart grins, proud of himself.

“Yeah, just a wank. Did him. Gorgeous cock. He was desperate for it. Pretty good, huh? You lot all – what – dicking about in the gift shop – and I’m upping my count. That’s what – seventeen?”

Seventeen.

_Seventeen._

“Pretty good, seventeen. What are you on? Oh. Zero. Still.”

Vince sets his jaw, looks down at his feet, then back up,  
“Wanking someone off in the bogs? In the bogs, Stuart? That’s so great? So special?”

“Special? What’s special?” Stuart laughs, like he doesn’t care, like he doesn’t understand, “what d’you want then? For that big first time for Vinnie? A bed? Silk sheets? Oh – oh I know, a hotel – big fancy floral bedroom? That what you’re holding out for?”

“Shut up,” Vince hisses, terrified, like he always is, that Stuart – Stuart just doesn’t seem to know when to keep his voice down, his mouth shut, “shut up, for god’s sake, before someone hears – “ and then stung, “and no. ‘Course I’m not. Just – in the bogs? Wanking someone off in the bogs? What do you get out of that?”

“Nothing wrong with doing it in the bogs, fine old tradition,” Stuart pauses though, swings his foot to touch Vince’s, “but. Yeah. Fucker didn’t even do me.”

There’s silence and then he adds,

“Still. Was better than the fucking gift shop. Bet you that.”

“Mm. Maybe,” Vince shrugs, “I wouldn’t know.”

Stuart’s turn to shrug, “Eh well, one of these days,” and he laughs, and Vince tries to join in. And when Stuart’s done, he wants to see the mug, wants to know when Hazel’s birthday is and what else Vince has bought her, what he’s going to do.

“Flowers,” he says, “women like flowers. Or you could make her a cup of tea in bed, like. Mum loves that.”

Vince shrugs, “It’s a Saturday,” he says, “always do anyway. Not sure Mum’s the flowers type. Could do breakfast though. That’d be nice.”

Stuart blinks, but he doesn’t say anything, ‘cos that’s the thing about Stuart. There’s times when he can be a bit – not so nice – but then, sometimes, you realise what you’ve just said, and you cringe inside ‘cos oh my god that’s so embarrassing, and he just – doesn’t seem to care. Maybe it’s being Irish. Maybe they’re all nice to their mums. 

Or maybe it’s just Stuart.

Vince doesn’t know, but somewhere inside he knows his mum was right.

_He’s got you right where he wants you, Vinnie…….it all means too much to you – and not enough to him._


	3. Chapter 3

_15_

_Autumn Term_

_Museum of Science and Industry_

_(Time after Time)_

 

It’s not really Stuart’s sort of thing, this. He’s not one to get excited about – well, any schoolwork really. Certainly not science things, not little models and ideas.

Feet on the ground, too busy looking at what’s real, that’s Stuart. Always an eye for what’s in it for him, what advantage he can get, who he can score off.

Vince doesn’t mind, not really, walking round this sort of thing on his own. After all, often enough he doesn’t have to, there’s other people to chat with, or sometimes Stuart does stay with him, copy the answers as they go round, rather than have it all to do later.

He’s not quite sure where Stuart is now, probably wandered off, entranced by some bloke, or just gazing at a mirror, experimenting with his hair. And how is it that when Stuart does it, no-one laughs? One of life’s great unfairnesses, that. 

Still. Vince is quite happy, mooching round on his own.

Really he is.

Only then he sees Stuart, full-on charm, chatting to Mark Alston. One hand on his arm. In front of everyone – well, anyone who looked.

And Mark’s not pushing him away, not laughing, not – Mark’s awkward and looking at the ground, and then up, and then – then the two of them are walking away, stiff-legged and urgent in Mark’s case, easy and confident in Stuart’s, but there’s no need to guess where they’re going.

Vince makes a face to himself, and sighs, and carries on filling in the worksheet, losing himself in the details of who invented what, when, how it’s been used over the years, sketching the first this, the most up-to-date that.

Not sketching very well, he’d be the first to admit. Stuart draws much better than he does, and usually, well sometimes, can be persuaded to help, speed down something that looks accurate enough to gain marks, not so good as to be obviously not Vince’s own work.

But of course, Stuart is busy.

With Mark Alston.

Vince’s thoughts shy away from that.

Mark Alston though.

Of all people.

He stares at some – some great industrial thing – he doesn’t know what, or why, doesn’t care much, right this moment – eyes unseeing.

Unaware, almost until the last moment, of the approaching boy, of the arm casually around his neck, the head close, too close.

“Bet you can’t guess what I’ve just done?”

Of course I can. Vince shrugs, trying to push the arm away, trying to pretend it doesn’t matter, none of it matters – but he knows that never works, not really.

Walks away, towards the next exhibit.

“Come on, Vince, you want to know, you want to hear – he was great. Guess who?”

Shrugs again, stares blankly, and then walks on, aware of his companion, but still, somehow, hoping for a sign of – of what, he asks himself? Contrition? For what?

What should Stuart apologise for?

Being more attractive than Vince? Being better at persuasion? Being braver?

How could he apologise for those?

Besides, Stuart never apologises.

And how could Vince possibly explain why he’s cross?

“You pissed off with me now?”

Or why he’s hurt.

“Hey, Vince, Vince,” and Stuart is there, right up in his face, laughing, like it’s all one big joke to him, “come on, I’ve done you a favour. He knows he likes it with boys now – you’re in with a chance. Go on, give it a day or two, let him realise he won’t get me again – he’ll be begging for it.”

Vince glares at him.

“I’m not taking your cast-offs,” he says, and it sounds sulky, petulant, not how he meant it at all.

Stuart steps back, hands in the air, surrendering,

“Oh, and it’s like you’re so fucking overwhelmed with offers,” and then he laughs, like he always does, like it doesn’t matter, any of it, like this pain, this jealousy, this anger, all of it means nothing, like he doesn’t even see it, “God, relax, have a laugh, stop taking it all so bloody seriously, it’s just a bit of fun.”

Vince walks on.

Stuart follows, and there’s a long moment of silence between them, broken only by the eighty-eight other fourth-formers, the three teachers, two teaching assistants, two curators, and a handful of bored mothers and toddlers in the hall.

“Alright,” he says, finally, “tell me then.”

Stuart grins, and,

“Had him, in one of the cubicles, Christ, both of us wanking each other off. Fucking brilliant,” then he pauses, looks away, “thought you’d be pleased he was up for it. Know you like him.”

Vince looks round, sees him chewing at his nail, and can’t stay angry, like he never bloody can.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, adds, “he’s been going out with Sonia for six weeks anyway.”

Stuart laughs again,

“Aren’t they all, Sonia or Susie or one of them,” looks back, meets Vince’s eye for the first time, knows himself forgiven. Scrabbles in his bag for pen and worksheet, “here, you fill in this lot, let me sort out that – what the fucks it meant to be? A goat?”

“Twat,” Vince swaps papers, “Manchester museum of science and industry, you seen any bloody goats in here? Just draw it, and what – Christ, Stuart, you haven’t even started this.”

No point holding onto a grudge.

It doesn’t matter.

Mark was never going to look at him anyway.

Besides, it’s been a while since Vince had hopes of Mark being the One.

All the same though.

Bloody Stuart.


	4. Chapter 4

_Summer Term_

_Beeston Castle_

_(Holding Out for a Hero)_

 

Slowly, turning over in his head what to say, still not quite sure as he reaches the top, Vince climbs the stair of the old gatehouse. They’ve already been all over, with a guide, and now they’re supposed to be filling in history worksheets on their own, making sketches for art, looking at the view from the top and probably doing something for geography. Only Vince wasn’t really paying attention to that part. Too busy wondering what Stuart was looking at, what he was up to.

He’s always up to something.

And then went swaggering off, and Mandy’s upset, convinced she said the wrong thing, only joking, and she’s nice, Mandy is, Vince has known her since he was three, no harm in her, nice girl. Times are, Vince wonders why he doesn’t ask her out, go to the cinema, walk her home, peck on the cheek – after all, how bad could it be? They’re friends, it’d be nice, in a way.

Maybe if – if things were different – he would.

But the thought of the scorn he’d face, or worse, the complete silence, disinterest, the loss of Stuart – no.

So here he is, going up the stairs to the room currently decked out as the chapel. The guide was honest about it, they don’t know where the chapel was, don’t know if there was one even, not a stone one as such, might have been part of the cluster of timber buildings lost now – but this room has been chosen to play the part.

Not consecrated or anything, of course, just dolled up.

Daft really.

Still. Age of the castle, it’d be a Catholic chapel, all incense and statues, mysterious and alien to Vince. 

Dark, too, and he blinks, eyes adjusting as he focuses slowly.

Stuart’s kneeling – what – why – is he praying? Maybe the Catholic thing – oh.

Not praying.

Oh.

I didn’t know.

You – you never said. Not watching, I’m not going to watch. 

And Vince almost runs down the spiral stair, back to the others.

“No, he’s – well – you know what Stuart’s like. He’s – best left – he’ll catch up. Yeah, well – bit pissed off – but – he’ll forget about it. Only you shouldn’t – it’s not funny. That kind of stuff,” ducks his head, bites his lip, swallows, because Mandy is alright, really, she doesn’t mean any of the Irish jokes any more than any of them mean the teasing, constant jostling for place, but – “they get enough hassle for real. Sometimes.”

By the time Stuart joins them again, and god but he looks smug, he’s forgotten the whole thing, the mistimed joke, and when Mandy starts to apologise, looks blank. But only for a moment, covers it, charming as ever, and winks at Vince.

“Nice one,” he says later, when they’re sat on the coach, his back to the window. No interest in looking out, but everyone knows it’s a status thing, who sits next to the window, who sits on the aisle seat, “daft bint, thinking I’d care – “

“You never said,” Vince has been waiting all afternoon for this chance, rehearsing words in his head, and even so he flushes, hearing himself, trying desperately to hide the hurt in his tone, “you never said. About your – boyfriend. So – tell?”

Stuart blinks, laughs,

“Fucks sake. Haven’t had a chance, have I?” then hears the words properly, “boyfriend? Jesus, Vince. I don’t do boyfriends. He’s just some bloke. Gorgeous cock though,” brushes reflexively at his knees, “good thing they don’t bloody make us wear uniform for these trips. Not that there aren’t plenty who’d get off on it, but those flagstones aren’t half dusty. Doesn’t show on jeans,” winks at Vince.

Vince nods, pretends nonchalance, pretends to understand.

You did – that – with some bloke you’d never met? Some bloke you don’t even know his name? 

But – but – is that – is that what you want? 

Kneeling in the dust, some bloke you don’t know. Just – and what about you – did he – did you – I don’t even have the words to ask.

“Fuckin’ excellent,” Stuart goes on, “getting him that wound up, hearing him, making him wait. And knowing you lot are all trotting round with your questionnaires and clipboards. Just makes it better. Doin’ it in a chapel as well. Always wanted to do that. Fuck ‘em. Just – fuck the lot of them. And him, he’s all hot and bothered, terrified of being caught, but wanting it so badly. Christ, you have to try it, Vince. Nothing better.”

But you don’t know – you don’t know where he’s been.

Is that how it is?

Is that all there is?

Vince shrugs, “Stuart you – Christ, you were careful, weren’t you? I mean, you know, he might – he might have – it – and, Christ, Stuart,” he manages, of all he feels the only words he can find echoing his mother’s lectures, “you are such an idiot. It can’t be that good.”

Stuart grins.

Raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, it is,” he says, but before Vince can start off again, “besides, he had condoms in his wallet,” frowns, thinking, “s’pose I should maybe buy some. Come with me, we’ll go to Boots on the way home, it’ll be a laugh. Get you some too. Never know your luck.”

Vince looks away, “like I’m going to need them. Anyway, I’m not just – just going to – like that. Anywhere. With someone I don’t even know.”

“Oh get you,” and Stuart croons softly, “look at me, Vincie-T, lousy with virginity, won’t go to bed til I’m legally wed –“ he breaks off, laughing, “so that’s you stuffed, isn't it? Or not.”

“Piss off,” Vince sighs, hurt and angry and longing, but what’s the point in letting Stuart see any of it? Ignores it all, tucks it away as he always does, always tries to, and simply says, “I dunno, I just think – maybe – it might be nice to – to be with someone who – “ he trails off.

“You are such a girl sometimes,” and Stuart laughs again, “Mind, I can just see it, your mum’ld love it, a big wedding, chance to dress up, can you imagine it, she’d look so – she’d steal the show.”

“Yeah, well, just as well it isn't going to happen, eh?” 

There’s a moment of silence between them, and then,

“At least she’d be there, at least she – you can talk – “ Vince looks up, but Stuart is staring out of the window, hand up at his mouth like he does, and there must be something to say, some words that will help, some way of saying you could tell them, you could, somehow, one day, they’re not so bad, really, but then Stuart’s head is up and the eyes are flinty as he goes on, “fuck that. I’m not ever going to do boyfriends. Unless they’re both really hot,” and he grins, and Vince blinks as he understands the words, because

“Oh my god, you wouldn’t? You haven’t?”

“Not yet. But I will. You wait. I’ll do it all. I’m not just thinking about it, talking about it, I’m out there, I’m doing it. We should go out. Go down Canal Street –“

“Mum said not til I’m sixteen – not til you’re sixteen –“

“Christ, you’re such a mummy’s boy sometimes –“

And the moment’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, that was Stuart Alan Jones singing a song from "Grease".  
> Sorry (not sorry).


	5. Chapter 5

_16_

_(Welcome to the Pleasuredome )_

 

“That you, Vinnie? Had a nice time? Kettle’s just boiled, if you want a cuppa. Plenty of jammy dodgers left if you’re nibbling. ”

“Yeah, it’s me, mum,” like it’d be anyone else. Vince leans against the door, waiting for the next question, wondering what to say, how to say it.

“Well come through then, both of you, let’s hear it,” Hazel laughs, “what’ve you been up to this time, how many drinks did you con out of some poor unsuspecting sod, Stuart Jones?”

Vince closes his eyes for a moment, then walks into the sitting room, looks at his mum. Oh mum. You’re going to kill me.

Hazel looks away from the television for a moment, then back, then back to Vince again,

“Where’s Trouble? He raiding my biscuit tin? You’d think he never got fed.”

Stuart never eats biscuits, mum, how can you not know that? But it’s hardly the moment.

He swallows,

“I’m sorry, mum, I – you know what he’s like – I – he just – “

Full attention on him now, Hazel puts her mug down, takes a long drag on her cigarette,

“Vincent Tyler, I let you go out on one condition, that you stay together. You know I think you’re both too young to be running around places like that – “

“It’s not my fault – I told him – he doesn’t bloody listen to me –“

“Are you still going to be saying that when something happens? When he doesn’t turn up tomorrow? When his mother’s crying? When the police come? I told you – you stay together – you’re only sixteen – both of you – he’s younger than you – you’re supposed to look after him, you know he hasn’t the sense of a flea –“

“Mum – I – for god’s sake – he didn’t listen to me – what am I supposed to do – go after him? Hold onto him?”

Do you honestly think I don’t want to?

“Yes. If that’s what it takes. Or I’ll be phoning his mother, telling her exactly what her precious golden boy’s up to. Is that what the pair of you want?”

Only I won’t, of course I won’t. I wouldn’t do that to you. Or to her, poor woman. And that’s not even thinking about the trouble I’d be in.

But Vince doesn’t know that, pales as he sits down,

“Oh my god, mum, please don’t, please. He – he said he’d come back here, later, he just – he looked alright, the bloke, Tom Davies, young – student, got a room in Halls, it’s not like Stuart went back to some dodgy flat or an older bloke or anything.”

Hazel looks at her son, wonders again how he can be so trusting,

“Tom Davies. Said he was a student. Hardly showed you his ID, did he?” she sighs, “alright, let’s just hope. And I’m having words with that boy in the morning. He’s here, I’m covering for you two, as a favour, and don’t you forget it.”

Still.

You’re home, and that’s what matters. Oh Vinnie, you have no idea.

“But I mean it,” she adds, “you’re too young for all this, both of you. Maybe – maybe I should come out, see what these places are like,” she looks at him, “they let women in, these bars?”

“Yes, course,” the words are out before Vince can think it through, “oh my god, Mum, no, you can’t, you – please.”

She smiles, “Not like anyone’ll know I’m your mum, I’ll be quiet, discrete, just – I’d feel happier if I knew a bit more what you’re up to,” and Vince cringes deep into the sofa cushions, as she stands, moves to switch off.

“Leave it on, I’ll watch for a bit. Not really sleepy yet.”

And Vince lets the sound of – whatever it is – wash over him, as he lies there, thinking about the evening. About going out, on Canal Street, being with Stuart, laughing, dancing, drinking – only coke, that’s one promise he has been keeping – watching. Watching blokes together, watching – nothing much, really, just seeing blokes snogging, groping – he’s a bit careful, doesn’t want to see more – at least, he does, oh how he does – but – it doesn’t feel right. Not just – staring, like. 

Actually, now he thinks, he’s desperate for a piss – thing about not wanting to stare, he ends up not daring to go into the gents. Which is daft, because surely not everyone in there is – is doing the things Stuart talks about.

The things Stuart does.

Not thinking about that, about Stuart, not now, not ever. Can’t. He’s my friend, it wouldn’t be right.

Anyway, his mum’s out the bathroom, he can go upstairs. But quiet as he is, she calls out,

“Vinnie? He back yet?”

“No mum,” and then realises he should have said yes. Too late now. 

Grabs the duvet, goes downstairs, because somehow, the thought of lying alone in his bed, alone, trying not to look at photos on the cupboard, trying not to think about what nearly happened here, one year, seven months, three weeks and four days ago – no. Not thinking about that. Best to go downstairs, easier to hear Stuart at the door, less likely to wake Hazel, better to lie watching the television, trying to think about – about anything else.

Only Vince is sixteen, he’s spent the evening with Stuart, he’s spent the evening surrounded by men dancing, kissing, touching – he can’t concentrate on some daft film – all he can think about, over and over, is when is it going to be my turn? When am I going to meet – someone – the One – when?

Will I know?

Will he – I don’t know – will he be tall, handsome, older – will he – will there really, one day, be someone who wants me? Kisses me?

Will I fall in love – with someone who loves me back?

One day?

And – when am I going to get the courage to at least get off with someone? 

Because Vince isn't stupid; contrary to Stuart’s opinion, Vince does know when someone is chatting him up. Not that it happens often, but it did tonight. Nice enough bloke, except – except – he wasn’t – I don’t know, I don’t know what I want. Only, well, Peter, he was – alright. Funny. Quite nice-looking. 

I’d chat to him again.

But – I just didn’t – I don’t know. I don’t want to just – go into the gents with someone. And I promised Mum I wouldn’t go off home with anyone. So. 

Besides, he may have been talking to me, but he was looking at Stuart. Like they always are. And I won’t be second best. When I meet him – the One – I won’t be second best. He won’t fancy Stuart.

That’s how I’ll know.

So I’m here, in front of the telly, and Stuart is out there, somewhere, doing god knows what.

Vince sighs, tries not to think about that.

There has to be someone out there who’d fancy me more than him.

Watches the film end, and oh super. It’s Open University. Skyscapes, astronomy and archaeology mixed together.

I’m sixteen.

I’m not that bad.

There has to be someone. 

Doesn’t there?

Stares unseeingly at the stars, at all the mysteries and wonder of the universe. 

No surprise I’m going to screw up O-levels. I’m rubbish at concentrating. Why’d they make you do exams now? When there’s so much else going on? Why can’t I come back and do them later? 

Or just not bother?

Not like Mum’s got any. She does alright. We get by, we have a laugh. I don’t want to be rich, don’t want to be anything special.

Christ, Stuart, where are you?

What the hell are you doing? Does it have to take this long? I thought – I never thought you’d be this long.

God, I hope he’s alright. Stuart, you are such a twat. I could kill you.

Fuck, that’s not funny.

Please Stuart, please God, just let him be alright. 

Gets up, puts a video in. Tries to lose himself in the adventure.

But for once the magic isn't working.

Gone three o’clock now.

Please Stuart, be ok. Please God, I won’t ask for anything else, not ever, if you just make him be ok.

There’s a creaking of floorboard overhead, and Vince goes to the foot of the stairs, looks up, and sees Hazel stood there.

“He home yet?”

Vince swallows, thanks – something, someone – that Hazel hasn’t switched the lights on,

“Yeah, yeah, he is, he’s just – we’re going to have a drink, toast, something, come up in a bit. Or we might just stay down here, watch a video. Yeah, I think – we’ll do that. It’s all fine. He’s fine. You go back to bed, Mum. Yell in the morning, yeah?”

Hazel’s tired enough that she accepts it. 

Vince stands watching until her bedroom door’s shut.

Oh God, please. Please. She’s going to kill me if she finds out. 

Please God. Make Stuart be ok. I don’t care – I – I won’t ever ask for anything else. I don’t care if – if I never meet the One, if nothing ever happens the way I – if I have to spend every night watching him pull while no-one looks at me – I don’t care, I won’t ever ask – just – please – make him be alright.

Slumps down where he is, the television having lost its attraction. 

Doesn’t know how long he’s been sat there, fallen into a sort of doze, long enough to be cold, long enough to be have pins and needles in his foot when he stands, when the scratching noise breaks through the not-quite-dream going round in his head. Stumbles as he moves to open the door, and there’s the most beautiful sight of his life.

Stuart.

Lit up and glowing, full of energy, triumphant and pleased with himself, more than anyone should be at this time in the morning, whatever it is. Milk-float is going down the road, so – about six-thirty maybe? And Vince wants so much to shout, to release all the tension in anger – or to reach out, to hold on, to say never do that to me again, please, I can’t bear it.

I’ll do anything.

Anything, only don’t be so terrifyingly brave.

I didn’t know where you were, I didn’t know what was happening to you, if you were ok. 

Don’t do that to me again.

But he doesn’t have chance.

“Fantastic. Completely fantastic. Christ, Vince, that was just – so much better than out the back – and I did it. All of it. All the things I said – and I was fantastic. Of course. He had the fucking time of his life,” and there, right there on the doorstep, Stuart reaches into his pocket, brings out the packet, flips it open to show only one remaining condom, “he won’t be walking properly for a week.”

Vince swallows, nods, “right, alright, was it – um – ok.”

But Stuart is too high – on sex, not anything else, Vince hopes – to even notice the lack of response. Pushes into the house, straight through to the kitchen,

“Completely fucking ravenous now though. Come on, breakfast, you’re up early, thought I might have to ring the bell, wake you both, but decided I might as well try, see if you were up yet, and you are, that’s fantastic, you’re fantastic Vince,” and it’s almost worth it, all his hours of worry, for that tiny compliment, “what’ve you got to eat, I’m starving, ended up walking half the bloody way home, buses aren’t on yet, should have just stayed there a bit longer I s’pose, could have used up the last one, but I dunno, he didn’t look so good after a bit. Come on, what’s that – I don’t want bloody cereal, toast, need some proper – don’t tell me Hazel’s not got eggs, bacon – fuck, should have brought my own –“

Vince turns from where he’s put the kettle on, found the despised ordinary breakfast food, because that’s what we have, that’s what we are, ordinary, not fantastic, just ordinary, I’m ordinary, checks the kitchen door is shut,

“Stuart, shut up. Mum’s livid. I told her you got home hours ago, but – she was completely furious you’d even stayed out at all, gone off like that. She did her nut. Said she’d tell your mum. Really cross. Like – like I haven’t seen her that cross for ages,” Stuart shrugs, and Vince goes on, “she says we’re too young, too young to be going off with blokes. That – that you’ll get into trouble –“

And Stuart is turning on him, furious himself now,

“Yeah, like your mum’d know all about that, wouldn’t she, _in trouble_ at what, fourteen?” and for a moment it’s Margaret Jones speaking, and Vince can’t quite believe it, can’t take it in, that Stuart could be so – but of course he can, and Vince is angry now because he’ll put up with a lot, but not that, not his mum, 

“ ‘least she cares, ‘least she wants to know what I’m doing, where I am, I don’t have to lie to her, and she’s right, you know she is, you could get hurt, you could get – you could get it – you don’t know everything –“

“ ‘know a damn sight more than you, coward,” and they’re glaring at each other, anger and exhaustion and hurt and disappointment all mixed up and painful, more painful than it could be with anyone else.

The kettle boiling breaks the moment, and Vince is there, turning it off, making a pot of tea from habit, coffee for Stuart. Turns to reach for milk, for mugs for the tea, and Stuart is there, opening the new bottle, handing the right ones over, asking,

“Will Hazel be awake yet? You going to take this up?”

And when Vince nods, still angry, still wordless, he’s too close, too close, smelling of – of not even a different shower gel, but of – oh my god – of spunk and sweat, reaching past him for the biscuit tin, for the saucer that Hazel’s morning mug of tea goes up on. Relic of the days when Vince was too small to reliably carry a full mug without spilling it, it does duty as an ashtray for the first cigarette of the day now, but Stuart’s arranging bourbons.

Smelling of a stranger’s spunk, he’s arranging the right biscuits for my mum’s morning cup of tea. 

To say sorry.

Only he won’t say it, he never says it.

Vince pours the tea, checking the colour, adding milk and sugar,

“Put the kettle on again,” he starts,

“- she’ll want a coffee the minute she gets down, I know,” and their eyes meet. Stuart shrugs one shoulder, eyes flick away and back, and, “I didn’t mean to worry her. I can look after myself. Tell her.”

Vince nods, and it’s his turn to look away and back, “I know, I did, I will. She just worries,” and so do I. 

But I’ve learnt something at least.

I can’t let her know what you’re up to. And I can’t let you see how much I care. ‘Cos you don’t want that.

You don’t want fussing over, protecting, you just want me to watch and admire. You want – I don’t really understand what you want. 

“I’ll take it up,” he says instead, “drink your coffee. Brace yourself. She’s going to shout, you know that?” and then he can’t help it, he grins, because he loves it when Stuart is happy and outrageous, “she won’t make it down for a while. Reckon you’ll have time to tell me exactly what you’ve been doing.”

And Stuart preens.


	6. Chapter 6

_Summer Term_

_Jodrell Bank_

_(Hunting High And Low)_

 

“Anything else I can show you then?” he had his eye on this lad, all the way round, listening, intent, focused – and just a something in the walk, something in the quick flush, head ducking when he asked a question, slight smile – just something – this might be Ken’s lucky day.

Not even turning, Vince shakes his head, staring at the photos of galaxies far distant, “no, its fine, thanks. Just looking.”

Ken backs off, but even as he does, the other one, the obvious, showy one, is there, up close in his space, all hair and eyes and hand on his arm,

“I don’t know,” Stuart says, “is there anything else you can show me, _sir_?”

Well.

He isn't Ken’s type, not really, but then – why look a gift horse in the mouth, or something? Seems a shame not to have a go, when it’s all laid out like that.

Ken leads the way.

 

 

 

 

Climbing up the steps onto the coach, Vince is already flushing, out of breath, late. Not the last one back, not quite, but – oh my god – Mr Taylor looks really pissed off.

“Vincent Tyler,” he ticks him off the register, “late as usual. And where’s Stuart?”

Vince bites his lip,

“Er – um – he – he was – in the shop,” and oh god, please don’t go and check, please, “he – he just wanted to – to get something – for his mum – it’s her birthday tomorrow – and –“

“Really?” and the last refuge of the teacher, he lowers himself to sarcasm, “and I suppose you were entranced by the displays, actually concentrating on your work for a change? The two of you exchanged personalities?”

Vince begins to stammer something incoherent, meaningless. But I was – I really was – I mean – it’s all just – space is so big – really big – mind-bogglingly big – and – and they’re looking for aliens – and – 

“Enough,” impatient now, Mr Taylor cuts across the sniggering, and oh my god, Stuart is going to kill me for saying that about his mother, “just sit down, boy.”

Vince subsides into the nearest – only – pair of seats still empty. Looks out the window, god, Stuart, hurry up, how long does it take?

As if Vince would have any idea.

Mr Taylor taps his pen irritably on the clipboard, thinking of rush-hour traffic, of bored teenagers, of how glad he will be when this particular lot start their study leave and with any luck don’t come back for Physics Alevel, of how long before he can taste the whisky that’s been calling to him for the last hour. Huffs, and,

“Nicky, Jenny, do you think you can go and remind Mr Jones that the coach is not _purely_ here for his convenience and the world, as you would think he would have learnt by now, does _not_ revolve around him?”

Sycophantic titters, and the two girls, good girls, always on time, never in trouble, stand up, delighted at the thought of a legitimate reason to go back to the shop, to get Stuart to themselves.

Vince, still staring glumly out of the window, can’t help but enjoy the annoyance in their sighs as he calls out,

“No, it’s ok, Mr Taylor, Stuart’s coming now, I can see him,” and there he is, sauntering across the car-park.

“Don’t hurry yourself, Jones,” Mr Taylor leans out of the coach door, “I suppose an apology is out of the question?”

Stuart, who isn't about to hurry, isn't about to ask already-aching muscles to work harder than they need, smiles as he brushes past the teacher, “ _Sorry_ ,” he breathes, insincerely, tilting his head just so.

Mr Taylor swallows, and finds himself longing for that whisky more urgently than ever.

Stuart stands, waits for Vince to get up, settles himself comfortably next to the window, slouching sideways in his seat, weight off his arse. Grins at Vince as he sits back down, leans close and confidingly,

“Bit sore. Worth it though. Fantastic cock,” and smiles to himself as Vince flushes, laughs, looks nervously to see if anyone heard.

Then the words sink in,

“Sore? Christ, Stuart, what – you didn’t?”

Stuart grins, shifts a bit in his seat.

“Oh my God, Stuart, you – please – please tell me you were careful? You don’t know him, you don’t know what he’s – he could have it – he could have anything – oh my god, Stuart,” pauses, and then, Stuart still looking so bloody smug he could hit him, “where? His office?”

Stuart shrugs, “cubicle in the gents. Like it matters. You’ve got no idea, Vince, it doesn’t matter where, or who, it’s just – getting it,” grins irrepressible, “but yes, yes I was careful. Need to stock up again. Getting expensive.”

“My heart bleeds,” Vince manages a decent attempt at sarcasm, he thinks, manages to hide all the rest of it.

Silence again, Stuart sleepy, satisfied, Vince trying to sulk.

He’s not very good at being angry with Stuart though – and besides, there’s no point being angry with someone who doesn’t even notice.

“I said you were buying your mum a present,” he confesses, but Stuart can’t be bothered to resent the slur on his image. Too well-shagged.

“Did you not like him?” Stuart says, and for a minute Vince is confused, then,

“What – doesn’t matter what I thought –“

Stuart sighs.

“God, you are such a twat.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Summer Holidays_

_Penzance_

_(A Different Corner)_

 

 

Behind a pub, bit manky, dustbins and litter, seagulls squabbling over something best unidentified – a man, not so very tall, but not short either, alright-looking, stubble which isn't exactly designer but not a mistake, jeans and a denim jacket over a tight tshirt, and maybe that sounds a very dated look, but this is 1986 – and Vince’s world is changing.

He’s actually – oh my god – he’s – he’s got his hand down my – on my – oh my god – here – like this – I don’t know what to do – I want to kiss him – this isn't how I imagined it – but don’t stop, please don’t stop – only I always thought there’d be kissing but – oh my god – I – please – he just smells so good, feels so – stop it, slow down, please, I can’t – I can’t – I want to – want so much. 

Biting his own lip in an effort to slow, to stay quiet, to get this right.

Barney doesn’t care.

“That’s it,” he says, voice low, encouraging, almost kind, “that’s it, darlin’, that’s what you want, isn't it, that’s all you need, someone to show you how it’s done. Come on then, come on,” and somehow that’s enough, more than enough, and Vince is gasping, breathless, clutching at handfuls of jacket and hiding his face, ashamed. 

But – wonderfully – this bloke isn't pulling away, isn't scornful, isn't laughing; he’s stroking the back of Vince’s head with one hand even as he half wipes the other on his – rather grubby, Vince can’t help noticing – jeans.

“Nice?” he asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer, which is probably just as well seeing as Vince doesn’t have the brain to form words, or the breath to utter them, “oh now, yes, aren’t you gorgeous, that’s it, yes, bit less of the death-grip on my neck, let’s have that hand doing something a bit more – that’s it, yes, oh nice, very nice, good boy, that’s right, you know how to do this, don’t you, come on, I reckon you’ve practiced this, not so very different is it?”

And no, it isn't, just, wonderfully, amazingly better, and Vince is looking down now, and oh my god, I’m really – am I doing this right? Am I?

“Lovely,” Barney whispers, and then, pressure on his shoulders, “now darlin’, how about you kneel down, and – yes, that’s right, good boy – you want to, don’t you?”

Oh yes, Vince wants to. Has wanted to for so long, and all Stuart’s stories have made it seem more and more desirable.

And more intimidating.

Am I doing this right? I can’t – I don’t know – is this what Stuart meant – keeping teeth covered – looking up – using hand as well – I don’t – I’m just not sure – I want – oh my god – the taste – my jaw aches – am I doing this right? – Stuart always says you’re in control doing this, but I don’t feel in control – I don’t even know if I want to be in control – just – I must be doing ok – please – he’s going to – oh my god – oh shit no – no condom – I don’t know how to stop and – I can’t just ask – I – I don’t know – I want so much – only I don’t know him – it can’t be safe – but I want – I don’t know what I want – just don’t stop, please.

“That’s lovely – ah fuck yes – good boy – and – yes, oh yes, very nice, you just – “ 

but if it’s so nice why are you pulling away – your hand on mine and I can’t – why – what was I doing wrong? 

“shut your eyes, darlin’ – ah fuck –“ 

why – oh – he’s – that’s – I didn’t know – that – on my face – oh my god I should feel sick but I don’t I just want – 

“fuck – god but you look good like that – Christ, just look at you, jailbait you are – don’t want to know how old – look at you, all ready to go again – come here,” 

and he’s pulling me up, close, right up against him, and licking – oh my god is that a thing people do? I didn’t know – and then finally, finally – he’s kissing me – his tongue in my mouth – and oh my god, oh my god, I need – I want – kiss me, just keep on kissing me – and his hand is back – and yes, please yes – don’t stop – please, kiss me, hold me – I – take me back to your place – please – more – I want – I – don’t stop.

This time, Vince doesn’t hide his face, he just keeps his eyes shut, wanting the kissing to go on, but Barney is an extremely practical person, intent on clean-up. As he pulls tissues out of his pocket, he catches sight of his watch.

“Oh shit,” he says, and shoves a bundle of tissue into Vince’s hand, “I have to go – thanks for that, darlin’ – ”

“Ok, right,” and then, pulling himself together, Vince gathers courage in both hands, his heart in his mouth, “ok, but can – can I – “

“ – got a train to catch, all finished here, back to London-town by ten tonight,” and Barney gives Vince a final kiss on the nose, turns away, “nice to meet you, take care,” and is gone.

“ – can I see you again, later, tomorrow?” but the words are whispered, the answer painfully obvious. Vince leans against the wall, staring at the seagulls without seeing them.

So.

I’m not crying.

It isn't just Stuart. 

That’s how it is.

I’m not crying.

Not always. It doesn’t have to always be just like that, it doesn’t. I can’t be the only bloke that wants – more than that.

I’m not crying.

He was nice, kind of, and – and it was good, I did it, I did ok. I must have. He liked it, liked me, fancied me.

It doesn’t matter that it was only a one-off. Probably best for a first time, for practice, like.

Doesn’t matter that it was here, behind a pub, in a side-street. I don’t care. I – stuff is never the way you imagine it.

And he did kiss me.

I’m not crying.

Even if I’ll never see him again, at least he kissed me.

Boys don’t cry. I’m not crying.

I just wish I knew his name.

It seems so awful not to even know his name.

Even Stuart knows the name of his first bloke.

Shakes himself, tells himself not to be such a girl, imagine what Stuart would say, checks his flies are done up, runs his hand through his hair, brushes dirt off his knees, wonders if he looks – different – will his mum know? Please not. Please.

Scrubs his face again with a clean bit of tissue, with the back of his hand, and I’m not crying, I’m not, why would I be?

Swallows again, and something about the taste in his mouth – oh my god – was that – I don’t know, I just don’t know what’s safe, no-one tells you, I don’t know what’s safe, how to find out. And I feel – I don’t know – I feel – it’s just anti-climax, that’s all. 

It isn't even like it’s that big a deal. 

Not really.

It was only a wank, a blowjob.

A kiss.

Not that big a deal really.

He’ll have forgotten about it by tomorrow night. 

It wasn’t that big a deal.

Only – I wish – I wish Stuart was here. 

Wish there was someone I could tell.

I am not going to tell Mum. No way.

God, no.

Shoves his hand down into his pocket, burying the tissue – knowing he is being ridiculous but not quite ready to throw it away, somehow – feels the coins. The money Hazel gave him for lunch.

Remembers seeing a phonebox, and retraces his steps, still feeling flushed, feeling guilty, wondering if anyone can tell.

There’s no queue and it isn't vandalised, for a wonder. Gets the coins out, ranks them in order, puts one in, dials.

“Oh, hi Marie, is Stuart – can I speak to him? It’s Vince.”

Waits, and hears shouts, the slam of a door, feet on the stairs,

“What?”

“It’s me.”

“I know it’s you, twat, what do you want? Aren’t you supposed to be building sandcastles and eating pasties?”

“Stuart – it’s nice – there’s stuff to do, like, and – and today – there was this film crew – proper tv people – and filming the Two Ronnies –“

“Christ Vince, you phone me up to tell me that? You are so sad –“

“No – right – anyway – this bloke – he just comes up to me – and – and I copped off. I did. Honest. Properly.”

“Yeah? Alright was it?”

Vince means to be honest, he does, he wants to say – well, kind of – only I feel a bit – low – and like it wasn’t meant to be like that – and I’m not sure why – and – and I don’t want that, I don’t want just that kind of exchange, and is that really all there is, is that how you like it to be, do you never feel like this? But that isn't the way they are, they don’t talk about stuff like feelings, not really.

“Alright, yeah,” he says, and then, beginning to believe it as he practices the story, “yeah, he just like – he took one look at me and he knew – and then – I’ve got these shorts on – the ones that are too small really, you know? – and he says – god, how bad is this – he says ‘I can see your thing’, just like that – but he’s pretty fit, so – so then we go off and he – he wanked me off, right? In daylight, just round the back of a pub. Fantastic,” and he feels better already, the approving noises Stuart’s making help no end, “and then – then I went down on him for a bit like, and – oh my god, Stuart – he came on me – no condoms, right, and I didn’t want to take a risk so – he was really nice about it, just pulled out – and then – god, you never said – he licked it off, right? He licked his spunk off my face – and that sounds really gross but – it was alright – and then he did me again with his hand – and it was so brilliant.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of stuff sounds gross – the best stuff – but – Christ, Vince, I’m in the hall, you know where the phone is – I can’t – good for you. That’s fantastic. It’s just the best thing. Now you know – now you’ll be out there all the time.”

“Yeah, yeah, fantastic, right,” Vince wants so much to believe it, to have that confidence, but, “only – Stuart – it’s alright isn't it? Only after he’d licked like – we was snogging – and it was really good – only I could taste – you know, him – but – it’d be safe – wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, bound to be. Don’t be such a girl. God, you’ll be worrying you’re up the duff next. No, it’s fine. Sure to be.”

“Look, I’m running out of money – I’ll be back Friday – see you Saturday or something? Yeah? And oh my god, results next week. You’ll be alright but – anyway, Saturday, yeah?”

“Yeah, right,” and the phone goes down.

Vince looks at the receiver, looks at the credit left, should have remembered Stuart does that.

No change though. Bother.

He’s starving now, and tea’ll be ages away.

Oh well.

Shrugs.

There’s never enough money for everything, and Stuart – Stuart said it’d be fine, said it was safe, said good for you. Sounded like he meant it, not sarcastic. 

So.

Pushes away the thoughts that can’t ever be expressed, can’t ever be admitted to – am I good enough now? Are you jealous at all? Don’t you care? 

Concentrates instead on the realisation, that yes, yes I understand now, I would – I would have gone back to his place, no-one knowing where I was, who I was with – if he’d asked, I’d’ve done anything, gone along with anything, because – because it felt so good. All the risks you’ve taken – I would have. Worse. And that scares me more than anything else.

So I won’t admit it, not even to you. I’ll just – I’ll just have to keep in control, keep myself sensible. Look out for you too, because you – you don’t have the sense of a flea.

All the same, it was fantastic. 

It was. Really.

And Stuart said – well, he didn’t say well done, because he wouldn’t, would he, not Stuart, but – he meant it.

Kind of.

Walks out of the phone-box feeling – if not like the king of the world, at least a bit less like a citizen of nowhere.

 

 

 

Three hundred and fifty-odd miles away, Stuart, unable just at the moment to get up and walk across the house, looks at the phone.

Well done Vince.

No, really, it’s good, it is. He’s happy for him.

Of course he is.

Vince got off with someone.

Kissed him too – that seems to matter to Vince, for some reason.

Touches his own lips, gently, as though he is wondering something.

Shrugs.

Chews on his thumbnail, still staring at the phone, at the photo on the wall of his parents on their wedding day.

Vince is Stuart’s best mate. Of course he’s happy for him.

About time Vince started doing stuff.

He’s happy for him.

Really.

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles from 1980s songs;
> 
> Relax - Frankie Goes to Hollywood
> 
> What's Love Got to Do With It? - Tina Turner
> 
> Time After Time - Cyndi Lauper
> 
> Holding Out for a Hero - Bonnie Tyler
> 
> Welcome to the Pleasuredome - Frankie Goes to Hollywood
> 
> Hunting High And Low - A-ha
> 
> A Different Corner - George Michael


End file.
